


The Drowning Man

by x_art



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-14 23:36:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7195820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_art/pseuds/x_art
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was tired of being angry, tired of wanting and not having. First Grace and now John. Suddenly it seemed as if his whole life had been spent wanting things he couldn’t have, of getting the things he ended up not truly wanting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Drowning Man

 

 

 

 

2011

October

 

He shifted from foot to foot, trying to ease the dull ache in his upper back. He shouldn’t have arrived so early. They’d agreed on eleven and it was just passed ten. At the very least, he should have stayed in the car in relative comfort. But he’d woken up at three and hadn’t been able to go back to sleep, his mind fixated on one point, a familiar mental vertex of stubborn, anxious introspection. Tea, breakfast, and work hadn’t eased the anxiety and he’d called for the car just minutes after he’d made the appointment.

It was good to be away from the city, though, and he leaned on the cold metal rail to stare out at the water.

A night storm had scattered the previous day’s clouds and smog, and the view was sharp and clear. On either side curled the arms of Pelham Bay; to the east stretched the beginnings of the Sound. Odd to think that just beyond the peace and quiet of this small, wild space resided every form of cruelty and kindness, every form of sin and redemption.

He wasn’t so stupid as to think that nature was benign and friendly like in a Disney movie. The natural world had its own harsh, unforgiving reality. But nature, unlike humanity, didn’t hurt for pleasure or greed or sheer will. Nature might be uncaring but it was never _consciously_ uncaring.

A bird’s call, piping sweet and clear, broke through Harold’s dark thoughts. He stilled, head cocked, listening hard. The bird sang again, its lilt brightening the already bright morning. It was probably a misguided warbler, beginning its migration a bit too early. The song matched the beauty of the day and he gazed up at the sky, now a wash of pale pink and blue. It was so—

“Pretty.”

He took a quick breath and touched the railing. John had come up behind him on the wooden boardwalk, creeping close like a cat on noiseless feet. Someone should bell him. “What is, Mr. Reese?” he asked calmly without turning around. What kind of bell would it take and how large?

“Pelham Bay. I’ve never been here before. It’s pretty.”

Mind caught on the mental picture of John wearing a bell and collar and nothing else, Harold answered vaguely, “It is.”

“I was out in Throgs Neck a few years ago.”

“A job for the CIA?”

“Mm-hmm.”

It was embarrassing, this sudden fantasy with the featured player so close at hand. He gripped the railing and scrubbed the image from his mind’s eye. It didn’t quite work and he found himself muttering, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Clearing his throat, he let go of the railing and turned. “To make you come out all this way, of course.” There, his voice was normal and his mind was free of everything but work.

John came up to stand next to him. “It’s nice to get out of the city. Besides, I wasn’t busy.”

A subtle dig, pointing out that there had been no new names for three days. “I fixed the problem.”

John shrugged. His sleeve brushed Harold’s. “What _was_ the problem?”

“A bad line.”

“I thought you had a back-up.”

“I do. I have a back up for my back up. Unfortunately, the building has mice. Or rats.” He glanced at John. “They chewed through one of the lines. Don’t ask me how—everything is protected by metal pipes.”

“Hmm.”

“I found the point of entry. It won’t happen again.”

“That building is old. Maybe you should get a cat. Or a dog.”

John had spoken in that tone, the teasing one that did uncomfortable things to Harold’s chest. “Over my dead body,” he muttered succinctly and pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket. He handed them to John.

John examined them. “Stephen Allen, age eighteen,” he murmured.

“Stephen died over by those trees almost two years ago,” Harold said, nodding to the oaks that stood by a large boulder. “He’d been beaten and strangled with some sort of nylon cord.” He gave John the last document, a blurry photo he’d printed off the boy’s FriendCzar account. “This was taken that last year.” Even out of focus as it was, the difference between the FriendCzar photo and the autopsy photos was shocking.

“I thought FriendCzar deleted inactive accounts.”

“They do.”

John frowned at the photo. “He was beaten by more than one person.”

Harold nodded. “Yes, the M.E. calculated at least three different sizes of fists. There might have been more. The city classified it as a hate crime. No one was ever charged.”

“Why not?” John held one of the autopsy photos up, angling it for a better view.

“Stephen’s credit card records said that he’d been to a gay bar with a friend the week before. The detectives on the case surmised that Stephen made a pass at a boy at the wrong time and in the wrong place, and the other boy’s family came after him.”

“You sound skeptical.”

“He had a girlfriend at the time.”

John slanted him an odd look. “A man can date women, can even be in love with a woman, and still be gay, Finch.”

He pressed his lips together, stifling a sigh and an instant, _‘I know. Mr. Reese,’_ because John _did_ know. As did he, himself.

John held the photo at arm’s length. “Maybe he was bi.”

“Whatever the reason, the police never took it any further.”

“What was Allen doing out here?”

“Bird watching. He was a member of the Audubon Society.”

“Maybe he got in the way of an over-enthusiastic birder and they killed him.”

This time, Harold didn’t bother stifling his sigh. “Mr. Reese.”

“What’s wrong, and by wrong, I mean what’s bugging you?”

“I don’t know.” An answer he always hated giving. “One person, I could understand, but three or four? It seems too extreme.”

“It happens all the time, Finch. What are you not telling me?”

“Look at the autopsy photos again.”

John did as Harold requested, squinting a little.

The back of John’s right hand was bruised and his knuckles were cracked. When was John in a fight? _Why_ was he in a fight? They hadn’t had a new number in over seventy-two hours. Perhaps John’s workouts had taken an extreme turn. Perhaps he’d been working out his boredom and frustration in the gym on 23rd.

Of course, it didn’t matter—as long as John didn’t get himself killed, what he did during his off hours was no one’s business but his own.

Only…

Harold didn’t like seeing John hurt. He didn’t like the idea that someone—whether by casual intent or serious purpose—had hurt him.

“Hmm.”

He adjusted his glasses almost angrily but kept his indignation from his voice when he said, “Do you see it?”

“Yes, a mark on the boy’s temple. I thought it was a bruise at first. It looks like an—”

“An imprint of a ring.”

John glanced up. “You’re getting good at this, Finch.”

The words meant nothing. They were just words. No reason to fidget with embarrassment, though he couldn’t really help himself, just a quick shift from side to side. Ridiculous. The next thing he knew, he’d be blushing or simpering. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

John straightened and returned the documents. “I’m not. I’m assuming you analyzed the design?”

“I did.”

“And what did you find out?”

“It’s a Freemason’s ring. Old, from the sixties.”

“Which means the wearer was either seventy or it was his father’s?”

Harold nodded. “Or that he found it. Or bought it.”

“Masonic rings are easy to come by,” John murmured, staring out over the water, just as Harold had. “The members are, however, pretty touchy about non-members wearing them. If the man was wearing a Mason’s ring, chances are he’s a Mason.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

John turned and leaned one hip against the rail. “But what does a dead boy and a Mason have to do with one of your numbers?”

He brought another photo out of his pocket. “Take a look at this.”

John took the photo, his fingers stroking Harold’s by accident. “Huh.”

“That’s what I thought.” He tucked his hand in his pocket and gazed at the photo. Even at this angle, he could see the resemblance—the wide brown eyes and narrow chin. “Her name is Sarah.”

John shook his head. “Twins?”

“Fraternal. And her number just came up.”

John sighed. “Are the parents still alive?”

“Yes, barely. They had a hard time after Stephen’s death. They relocated to Connecticut, probably in an attempt to escape the bad memories. The father started drinking. He sobered up but it took him over a year. The mother fared better but she’s seeing two therapists. Sarah is enrolled at NYU; she’s a sophomore.”

“Lose one kid only to lose the other?” John murmured, shaking his head.

“Exactly. We need to figure out what’s going on. And quickly.”

“Where do you want to start?”

“See what you can find out about Sarah’s life at NYU. Investigate her roommate and friends. I’ll check out what I can.”

“Will do.”

They turned as one and walked back towards the parking lot.

Harold kept his eyes on the uneven path and they were almost at the crest of the small hill when he asked, “Did you take a taxi?”

“No. I’ve got a car.”

He nodded, determined not to watch John walk away with that long stride of his when he remembered one crucial detail. “One thing, Mr. Reese.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been collecting numbers for years now.”

“And?”

“And, Stephen Allen’s never came up. And it should have, if the system works.”

John cocked his head. “You’re the expert; what does that mean?”

He shrugged, loathe to admit this, too. “I have no idea.”

John nodded and turned away.

Harold did the same, heading towards the black town car. As he climbed inside, he told himself that he wasn’t upset that their conversation hadn’t strayed from the impersonal to the very personal. Last week’s events were last week’s events. Whatever the outcome, they still had work to do and people to save.

***

He found only the usual when he searched Sarah Allen’s records. Her childhood and teenage years were fairly normal. Her parents were from wealthy families and they had provided the twins with the usual things such as summer camps, family vacations and the best schools.

Sarah’s grades started out average and then progressed to outstanding as she got older. She’d had the usual circle of friends that emailed and texted on an hourly basis—their conversations ranged from boys to teachers to music. When she’d entered NYU, her classwork was strong with only a touch of a sophomore slump. Her grades and class attendance dipped dramatically in year two and then evened out again. Again, normal, considering her other half had been murdered.

She emailed her parents regularly, called less so, and was dating a boy from her _Beyond Shakespeare_ class. The boy, one Jackson Ricci recently from New Mexico, was also seemingly average. He was tall, dark-haired with a square jaw. But…

“Ricci,” Harold murmured, rubbing his jaw. It wasn’t an uncommon name in New York, but still, it sounded familiar. He opened a new window and started down that path.

Thirty minutes later, the new path petered out. He found plenty of Riccis, many of which were involved with a variety of unsavory occupations. Five were incarcerated, three had links to organized crime and another three had their own personal parole officers. None, however, had any obvious connection to Jackson Ricci of New Mexico.

Social media was next. He hacked Sarah’s FriendCzar account and followed that trail. There was nothing there, either. Although…

He bent closer to the screen. Jackson should probably be a little more careful as to which teachers he mocked on the semi-public network; many professors weren’t quite the social networking neophytes that he seemed to think they were.

Pursing his lips, he opened another window—he’d see what Sarah’s closest friends could tell him.

***

He was hacking one of the girl’s accounts when the headset chimed. He tapped the link. “Did you find anything?”

“You ever wish for the glory days, Finch?”

John’s voice was low and monotone—he was probably in the middle of a crowd. “The glory days?”

“You know—going to class during the day, bar hopping at night, eating popcorn for breakfast?”

Harold stood and went to stand before the glass board. “Those weren’t ‘glory days,’ as you call them. They’re not now.” Sarah Allen’s official NYU photo stared back at him mutely.

“You didn’t bar hop?”

“You know I didn’t and neither did you. I’ve seen your transcripts. You don’t get grades like those by staying out all night.” When John didn’t say anything, Harold added, “Where are you?”

“NYU. Sarah’s econ class is about to let out.”

“Did you find anything?”

“Not so far,” John said. “She seems like a nice girl.”

“And how did you deduce that?”

“I asked around.”

John’s tendency towards verbal brevity was nothing new, but for some reason it was now a goad and Harold’s frustration gelled into irritation. “I don’t pay you to ‘ask around,’ Mr. Reese. I pay you to do the things I can’t.”

There was a slight pause, giving Harold time to regret his sharp words, and then John said, “All right.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What I do best.”

With that, John hung up, leaving Harold with nothing but silence. “‘What you do best,’” he mimicked, his heart not in it.

He returned to his computer and found the browser window he’d opened earlier that day. It was the feed from NYU’s campus security and it was pointed at Sarah’s dorm.

He leaned forward, eyes fixed on the tall building. There were a few students hanging about and more coming and going. Suddenly, the doors flew open and students streamed out in all directions. The cameras were too far away for details, but Harold could tell that the students were more annoyed than scared. A couple boys were even smiling.

He switched the feeds to the interior. It was the same state of confusion, except there, striding through the rushing students like a farmer wading through a field of hip deep wheat, was a familiar figure. The figure stopped and then turned and looked up at the camera.

Harold sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. Outrageous. John did not just wink at him.

John moved out of view of the cameras. Harold scanned the feeds but found nothing. He switched to the rear exterior camera in time to see two fire trucks and the fire chief’s SUV roar up.

“Don’t get caught, Mr. Reese,” he murmured absently as the firefighters ran inside the building. John was so good at getting out of difficult situations, but there were only three access points—the main doors opposite Union Square, the side exit that let out to the parking lot in back, and the delivery dock off the cafeteria. In a moment, all were blocked by firemen, EMTs and campus security.

It was a very long twenty minutes before the firefighters came trudging back out. The fire chief and campus security took their turn, coming back out fairly quickly. They stood around for another twelve minutes, probably discussing what had happened. It was only when the fire chief got into his SUV and campus security went back inside the dorm that Harold began to worry.

He was reaching out to tap the mic link when a call came through.

“Did you like that, Finch?”

“What did you do?”

“The usual—bugged the place and copied the data off her hard drive, cloned her tablet and cell.”

“But how did you get out?”

“Are you still looking at the exterior feed?”

“Yes.”

“Look again.”

And he did, examining the scene. The students were slowly re-entering the building, this time less enthusiastically than when they had hurried out. The EMTs were gone and the firefighters were stowing away their gear. They were surrounded by a small crowd of curious students. “No,” he said slowly, “I don’t—” He leaned closer. By the northern-most fire truck, out of view of the rest, stood a fireman. He looked up at the camera. And then he waved.

“Mr. Reese,” Harold said, unable to keep the disapproving tone from his voice. “You didn’t hurt that fireman, did you?”

“Of course not, Finch. He’s tied up in a closet. He’ll be fine.”

“You better get out of there before they start asking questions.”

“On it. See you later.”

The figure moved out of view of the camera. Within a relatively few seconds, the camera caught the back of a man in a dark suit walking between the buildings. Even though he walked right by a fireman and then campus security, none of them stopped him. It was something Harold had noticed years ago when John first came to his attention. John had a way of moving that somehow forestalled questions and comments. Maybe it was the surety of his walk; maybe it was the way he avoided eye contact.

Or maybe everyone sensed that John was dangerous and best avoided?

Whatever, it worked and John disappeared around a corner, unmolested.

Harold relaxed, his arms falling to his sides.

His back was hurting more than usual. The stretching exercises given by his doctor would help, as would the pills in the desk drawer. He touched the drawer, then shrugged, pushing the pain to the side. There was still data to gather and he needed to delete the footage that might betray John to the authorities.

He began typing, losing himself in work.

***

John didn’t show up ‘later.’ At three, he forwarded the recent email from Sarah Allen’s cell, adding he was off to pursue a new angle.

Harold worked until seven, then shut down for the night. He put on his coat and hat and gathered his laptop and notes. When he got downstairs, he found Henry sitting in a chair by the door, reading the newspaper. As soon as Henry saw him, he stood up and went to hold the door open.

They walked to the car, Harold in front, Henry following.

The pretty day was long gone and it had started to snow. Not the soothing, greeting-card kind, but the hard stinging variety that hurt one’s face and made one slip and slide.

“Sir?”

He didn’t pause. “Yes?”

“Look.”

He followed Henry’s nod.

Finally.

John was leaning against the town car, hands in his pockets.

Harold began to walk faster, asking as soon as he was within range, “Where have you been?”

John raised an eyebrow. “I told you. I was checking something out.”

Harold gestured sharply and waited until Henry was in the car before saying, “And what was that?”

“Ricci. The name sounded familiar.”

“My thoughts exactly.” He had control of his temper now; he couldn’t think what had come over him. “Who is he?”

“The son of Robert Ricci, or,” John added with a smile, “Roberto Ricciardi, as he used to be known.”

Ah. Now he remembered. It was a case from the late nineties, one he’d barely paid any attention to—he’d been too busy perfecting a new compiler and had no time for petty criminals. Ricciardi had been a vicious, low-level gangster that had grown a conscience and blown the whistle on his employer, Dom Moretti. Not that it had done any good. He’d testified and Moretti had walked. Ricciardi was killed in a hit-and-run a few days later. “I thought he was dead.”

“No, just in hiding. The Feds gave him a deal and he entered witness protection; he and his family moved to some place in the southwest.”

New Mexico. “How did you find that out?”

John smiled charmingly. “You know—a question here, a question there.”

Telling himself that he was neither amused nor charmed, Harold asked, “Why did Jackson come back? I would think it would be too dangerous.”

“I have no idea.”

“We need to warn Sarah.”

“We should wait. I have a feeling about this one.”

“And that is?”

John shrugged. “That it’s a hate crime.”

“How so?”

“Did you look through those emails I sent you?”

“I glanced at them. They didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know.”

“You missed the last one, then.” John pushed away from the car and got out his cell. He paged through it, then held it up. “See?”

John smelled of wool and snow and Harold had to focus, making an effort to concentrate on the photo and not John and his heady scent.

The picture was just a picture. Or rather, it was a picture of a picture. It was blurry, obviously taken in a hurry, but it was clear enough to see— “Is that Ricci and Stephen?” The boys weren’t doing anything much, but Ricci’s arm was around Stephen’s waist and Stephen was leaning a bit too close. “They were lovers?”

“Looks like it.”

“So, Jackson Ricci is the other boy. The one that objected to Stephen’s advances?” He glanced down at the image. “It doesn’t seem as if he’s objecting to anything.”

John put his phone away. “Photos don’t always tell the whole story. Maybe they’re just friends. Maybe Ricci senior found out. Maybe he hired some goons to take care of Stephen. Being gay in the mafia is a good way to die.”

“Where is Jackson now?”

“In his dorm. I put Fusco on it; he’ll let me know if the boy makes a move.”

“So Sarah is safe for now.”

“She is.”

They were silent for a long moment and then Harold sighed. “Well, it’s late. I suppose we’ll have to pick this up in the morning.”

“Looks like it.” John opened the car door.

He touched the doorframe “Can I offer you a lift?”

“I’m fine.”

He frowned and gestured to the snow. “You can’t walk home in this—it’s freezing.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Mr. Reese—”

“Finch,” John interrupted with a small smile. “I’m fine.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked away.

Harold watched John go, his shoulders hunched against the driving sleet, and then slid into the back seat.

“Where to, sir?” Henry said.

“Home” he said, wiping away the condensation on the window, not surprised to find that John was already out of view.

***

The apartment was cold. His climate control system was state-of-the-art, a copy of the one he’d created when he’d realized that he was spending more time at the office than at his apartment and he needed something he could control remotely. The problem was, he thought, as he turned up the heat, that one needed to remember _to_ control it remotely. The system, for all its capabilities, wasn’t the Machine—it didn’t just _know_ things.

He went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. While waiting for the water to boil, he got out his laptop and then turned on the TV. He multi-tasked, retrieving what information he could on Jackson Ricci while watching the evening news. A seven-car pile up on the FDR had closed the highway—two people had died and another three were severely injured. There had been a fire in Washington Heights; a young girl had been trapped in her apartment after she’d tried to rescue her cat. The cat had made it out alive, but the girl was taken to the Weill Cornell burn center. She wasn’t expected to live.

Harold reminded himself that accidents were a part of everyday life and he wasn’t God—he couldn’t do anything about the random, the unplanned. Still, the news was upsetting so he changed the channel to NPR and then got up to make dinner. By the time his leftover steak was re-heated, he was engrossed in a program on a young Nigerian violinist who had recently taken the music world by storm.

At ten, he turned off the television, closed the laptop and then followed a ritual perfected over the years.

First, he checked all the doors and windows. Like the thermostat, he’d built the security system himself. He was confident the system was working perfectly, but it never hurt to be careful. When he’d completed his check, he ran through the security feeds, finding nothing amiss on the property.

Next came the bathroom. He removed his glasses, then washed his face and brushed his teeth. He stared passively at his greenish reflection while he brushed for approximately two minutes. When the time was up, he rinsed and spit and then dropped the toothbrush into the stand. He picked up his glasses and turned out the lights.

Thinking of nothing in particular, he removed his suit, arranging his trousers, shirt and jacket on the chair, readying them for the morning when he’d drop them off at the cleaners. He went to his dresser for his pajamas, choosing the black silk with the royal blue trim.

He was buttoning his pajamas when his ritual was interrupted by a memory, now six days old. He went to the full-length mirror that stood by the windows.

The room was illuminated by the nightstand lamp and the distant streetlights. His own reflection was just a gray copy of his natural self. Even so, he could see enough, feel enough. He pulled aside his pajama collar and touched the smooth, unblemished skin over his left collarbone. Six days ago that skin hadn’t been smooth and unblemished. Six days ago, a small, dark bruise made by sharp teeth had curved over the bone to the small hollow just below. It hadn’t hurt at the time, the bite. He’d only noticed it later, hours after John had left.

He touched the area, pressing hard as if that would make the mark reappear. It didn’t, but with the small pain came another memory, that of John sitting too close as they discussed the Collins case. Of John’s casual touches that weren’t casual at all.

Harold had known what was going on. He neither a naïf nor a monk, no matter how many times Nathan had accused him of being both. He’d been quite aware of John’s interest as well as his own response. Never mind the fallout from getting involved with an employee, never mind it had been a while since he’d experienced anything approaching lovemaking—he’d never been one for sex for sex’s sake and had dismissed the idea as soon as it had presented itself.

He hadn’t counted on John, however.

Because John had a way about him, a subtle and contained relentlessness that had brooked no resistance even though Harold could not remember one instant of coercion or force. To use an appropriate if geekish simile, John been an unstoppable brute force attack to his pathetically weak firewall.

And yet, he’d been the one to put it all into motion. He could have so easily left it alone, pretending ignorance or even aversion. The evening would have gone very differently if he had just kept his mouth shut.

_“We’ve been sitting here so long and my neck is very stiff.”_

What had he been thinking? He might have well asked John to see his etchings and he almost cringed with embarrassment, watching his mirror self wince in reflective pain.

It hadn’t been worth it, the encounter. A momentary release that had seemed important at the time but truly wasn’t. He needed to remember that and not the other things such as the way it had felt to stroke John’s bicep and forearm—John’s muscles were so hard and his skin so surprisingly soft _._ Or how John’s kisses weren’t slick and practiced befitting an international spy, but hesitant, almost tender. And finally, how it had felt to have John touch him, his own responses such a spiral of confusion and mistrust that he’d almost ended the whole thing before it had started.

When John had gotten up afterwards, casually nude as if he dressed in front of relative strangers all the time, Harold had stared, captured by the moment. It had almost been as erotic as watching John undress—covering up that smooth skin, bit by bit by—

He made a small noise in the back of his throat and clenched his fists. His cheeks were burning and his heart was racing. He closed his eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath, filling his mind with code and nodes and exploits until he’d regained his composure and his conviction that as much as he’d enjoyed the evening, it hadn’t been worth it. His working relationship with John was too important. He couldn’t allow anything to jeopardize it, even the slippery slope of his own desire.

Luckily, John wouldn’t object. This past week, Harold had watched carefully, searching for any frustration or amorous feelings on John’s part and had found nothing. John had made no move to initiate another encounter, either in look or deed. Barring the normal sarcasm, John’s attitude was more reserved, more professional than ever.

And that was a good thing. It was a very good thing. It saved Harold from the necessity of trotting out the four paragraph speech he’d mentally prepared the morning after, the one that started off with, _‘Mr. Reese, as much as I enjoyed the other evening, I feel it best…’_ and ended with, _‘It was lovely but now we must move on.’_ Somehow John had come to the same conclusion and that was good.

Harold nodded to himself in the mirror, congratulating himself on the fortuitous turn of events when he remembered John tossing his jacked over his shoulder and saying as he left the room, _‘Oh, no, Harold. This changes everything.’_

Complacency weakened, he fastened the last button of his pajama top, thinking sourly, _So much for that._

So much for that.

***

In the end, the Allen number took a surprising detour, as had so many of their other numbers. It hadn’t been a case of mistaken identity or a hate crime. Jackson Ricci turned out to be Stephen and Sarah’s half brother. Jackson’s mother, Ellen Ricci, had met and had an affair with Jonathan Allen while the Allen family had been visiting family in Tucson.

Ellen had gotten pregnant. Whether she’d ever told her husband was anyone’s guess but Jackson found out. He researched the family, discovering his real father was a man of means and it had consumed him.

He’d moved to New York under his false father’s old name and enrolled at NYU. He’d gotten to know the twins, worming his way into their hearts and confidences. On a semester break, he apparently hired three of his father’s friends to kill Stephen, instructing them to make it look like a suicide. Jackson then turned his eye on Sarah and there he made his first mistake: he fell in love. He managed to deceive Sarah for two years until she somehow discovered the truth. They’d argued in public and it was that argument that had caught the Machine’s interest.

“Deception, murder, incest, and greed,” Harold murmured, watching from the comfort of the library as Carter and Fusco escorted Jackson Ricci from his dorm room. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Sitting beside him, John smiled. “I bet his father wouldn’t like the comparison.”

“I don’t care very much what Roberto Ricci likes, Mr. Reese. If he hadn’t been who he was, Jackson would have had a very different life. He was a liar and a murderer.”

“And the mother?”

Harold shrugged. “I’m sure she had her reasons, but she should have told the boy. Stephen might still be alive if she’d been honest with her son.”

“So you’re saying that honesty and fidelity are important in relationships, Finch?”

John hadn’t glanced away from the monitor, but Harold stiffened. “I’m saying they are _essential_. Especially when money and power is involved.”

“Ah.”

He wanted to get up and walk away, but his back was hurting and the effort would be awkward. Besides, this was his library—if anyone should leave, it should be John.

“Did you find out why the Machine missed Stephen’s number?”

He shook his head. “No. I can only guess that it was because the hit was organized in a town of less than a thousand people. They traveled to New York separately, they left separately. If it weren’t for Jackson’s confession and his collection of printouts gleaned from the internet, it’s doubtful we’d ever know the reason why he did what he did.” He turned stiffly to glance at John. “We have you to thank for that.”

John shrugged. “I was just getting tired of waiting for something to happen. I figured making the kid a little jumpy would shake things loose. Now we just have to wait to see if Carter has any luck tracking down the hit men.”

He wanted to say, _‘I’m not going to hold my breath,’_ but didn’t. Sarah was still alive and for now, that was what mattered.

John got up with a sigh. “Another one down.” He stretched. “Number fourteen.”

If he leaned only slightly to the right, his shoulder would meet John’s hip. He stayed completely still. “Fourteen?”

“Hm, mm.”

It took a second to make the connection. “Despite my continual use of the term, they’re not _numbers_ , Mr. Reese. They’re people.”

“I know.”

Harold drew a breath to argue and then didn’t. It hadn’t been John that had purposefully and unemotionally coded the Machine to throw away what once was ‘irrelevant’ numbers. It hadn’t been John that had ignored Nathan’s pleas and exhortations.

“Are you hungry?” John asked quietly.

“No.”

“Then I’ll see you in the morning.”

He killed the connection to the campus feed, erasing the electronic trail with a quick line of code. “Yes.”

“Good night, Finch.”

“Good night, Mr. Reese.”

 

________________

 

December

 

 

He removed another photo from the display board and added it to the pile on the desk. “How is she?”

“Good. A little sore by the looks of it. She’s eating breakfast with her son.”

“Hmm.”

“I had to do it, Finch.”

“I know.” And he did, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. By threatening HR, John had put himself in a terrible position. To use a commonplace chess metaphor, John as knight had maneuvered one step closer to the queen by saving Carter from Elias Moretti. “What now?”

“I need to wrap a few things up.”

“By that, I’m assuming you’re referring to Hector’s car and the motorcycle?”

“I’m keeping the motorcycle. I like it.”

“And then?”

“Sleep.”

He quashed his instant disappointment and agreed, “Yes. It was a long evening and there are no new numbers.”

“Good.”

John disconnected. Harold removed the earbud and put it in his pocket. He hated wearing it—it always made his ear itch in places he couldn’t scratch. It didn’t seem to bother John, though. No doubt he was long used to it after all that time in the CIA.

Which meant he should wear the earbud at all times—maybe repetitive experience would lead to more comfort. Making a small face, he finished clearing the display board of evidence. He’d file the photos away, make a cup of tea, and then see what he could find out about Carter’s soldier. No doubt there was an interesting story there.

***

Later, he remembered thinking as he climbed the library steps the next morning, that things were going well. He wasn’t happy but he wasn’t unhappy, either.

Then he logged into the computer and everything went to hell in a hand basket.

Four numbers at once.

***

Not surprisingly, the city morgue was a very quiet place. Harold sat on the cold metal bench, staring at the pale blue tiled walls. A tile near the floor was cracked down the middle, revealing a narrow fissure of white. It couldn’t be sanitary, that crack. Mold and germs could thrive in that vulnerable spot. They could creep in, weakening the entire building, rotting it all from the—

“Sir?”

He jerked and looked up. Dr. Madan was standing over him, removing bloodstained gloves. “How is he?” There was blood on Madan’s surgical mask and gown.

“He is fine. The bullets hit nothing vital.”

Harold nodded and pushed to his feet. “That’s a relief.” His voice sounded odd to his own ears, small and somehow mechanical.

Dr. Madan hesitated, then glanced over his shoulder. “He has many scars. Is he…?” He turned back to Harold and shook his head almost wryly. “But, I forget. No questions.”

Harold nodded. “That’s best.” He started to add, _‘Mainly for your safety,’_ and thought better of it. “Do you have a list of medications?”

Dr. Madan nodded and went to his desk. He wrote quickly. “I am prescribing something for the pain and a strong antibiotic. If the wounds show any sign of distress or are painful to the touch after three days, please contact me as soon as possible.” He glanced up and then gave Harold the paper. “I’ve included my mobile on this list.”

“I appreciate your discretion, doctor.” He took the slip of paper. “Thank you.”

“It would be best not to move him for a while.”

“I have someplace quiet. He’ll get all the rest he needs. Besides…” He folded the note and tucked it into his pocket. “The morgue’s day shift starts in an hour. We need to leave.” Madan didn’t ask how he knew about the schedule, though Harold could see he wanted to.

“Do you need help?”

“Yes, please. Just to the car.”

With the Madan’s assistance, he got John into a wheelchair and then into the car. As they drove away he looked in the rearview mirror—Madan had already gone inside.

Good.

***

‘Someplace quiet,’ wasn’t exactly that, but it was the best he could do on short notice. He chose the apartment near the park because the surrounding homes were owned or rented by the very wealthy who valued their privacy. And because, of all the places he owned in the city and beyond, this one had its own garage.

He waited until the garage door had sealed behind him, then popped the trunk and hurried to the rear of the car. “I am truly on the road to hell,” he murmured to himself as he retrieved the folded wheelchair. He’d taken it from the morgue along with a bag full of supplies while Madan had worked on John. He’d told himself that he’d either return the items or donate a large sum of money to the city. Neither assurances eased his conscience nor rid him of the feeling that his slippery slope was leading to a headlong tumble.

He opened the passenger door. If possible, John looked worse than he had before—his face was white and his skin gleamed with sweat. “Mr. Reese?”

John opened his eyes. “Where are we?”

“At one of my safe houses.”

“The one on 75th?”

Harold gently tugged on John’s arm. “No.”

John moved an inch. “The place on 36th and Lexington?”

He pressed his lips together. He hadn’t realized John knew about that one. “No, and you might as well give it up. I won’t tell you.”

John sighed. “Don’t you trust me yet, Finch?”

He busied himself with guiding John out of the car and into the wheelchair before saying, “A leopard can’t change its spots, Mr. Reese.” He shouldered the duffle bag and pushed the wheelchair towards the elevator. When he pressed the call button, the door opened, releasing a cool puff of air.

“I suppose you’re right,” John muttered, “though I would never have thought of you as a leopard.”

The chair’s wheels stuck a bit at the door gap and he shoved, hoping the jolt wasn’t quite as sharp as it felt. “Sorry,” he murmured, even though John gave no sign that it had hurt. He had to lean around John to get to the call buttons. He fumbled for the penthouse button, his stomach pressing against John’s shoulder. “What kind of animal would I be?”

John didn’t say anything for a moment and then he mumbled, “Some kind of bird? Maybe a titmouse or a chickadee?”

From this angle, he couldn’t see all of John’s face but even so, he knew John was smiling. “Should I be insulted?”

“No. When I was a boy, a family of chickadees built their nest in the trees near the house. I liked them. They were cute.”

The elevator reached its destination and the doors opened to the dark flat. “I trust you won’t ask me to sing.”

“Never.”

Almost there—only another minute or so. “How are you feeling?”

John tipped his head, giving Harold a sidelong glance. “Like I was just shot.”

“Yes, well, you can rest soon.” He guided the chair around the sofa and across the living room to the back bedroom. “You really should have a shower, but that will have to wait.” He parked the wheelchair by the bed and hurried around to help John stand.

John, however, held up his hand and murmured, “I can do it.”

He stood by, hands out, watching nervously as John maneuvered onto the bed. “Do you need assistance with your clothing?”

John shook his head. “I could really use a drink but I know what you’ll say to that.”

“It’s best not.”

“Then a glass of water?”

“Yes, of course.” He nodded once and hurried out of the room. He was only gone a moment but when he returned, John had shed his footwear and trousers and was under the covers. He handed John the glass, startled by the odd sense of loss. He himself preferred privacy when he dressed or undressed but not John. Was that one of the things that was now to change because of that one foolish—

“How long will I be here?”

“Hm?” He glanced up. John was watching him with half-closed eyes. “Truthfully, I’m not sure. I’m afraid I haven’t been able to think beyond getting you to the doctor and then to someplace safe.”

“That’s okay, Finch” John said, closing his eyes. “You’re not the Machine. You can’t think fifty steps ahead.”

He retrieved the glass before John could drop it and set it on the table. “Indeed I am not, Mr. Reese.”

“ _‘John,’_ ” John whispered. “You called me ‘John,’ before.”

He stilled and then said evenly, “Get some sleep. I’ll check on you in an hour.” He left without waiting for an answer, returning to the living room to stand before the windows.

If the garage and the relative seclusion were the main reasons he’d purchased this house, the view was an added bonus. The house was situated at the edge of the tiny park—only a footpath and the turn-of-the-century lamps were reminders that other people even existed. Whenever he visited the apartment, the first thing he did was go to the windows.

There was no one about, which made sense given the hour and he stepped close until he could feel the air change from warm to cold.

He really should be in bed. He’d been up for almost twenty-three hours and the night before he’d slept for maybe three or four. The sofa behind him was supremely comfortable, as was the bed in the guest room on the second floor. All he had to do was turn and walk ten steps, lie down on that supremely comfortable sofa and close his eyes—it would be as easy as that.

He didn’t move.

He was rooted to the spot as if his feet had been glued to the floor or maybe—he conceded with a soft sigh that fogged the glass before him—maybe it was more that he was resisting a pull as strong and deep as gravity. He could almost _feel_ it, the need to go sit by John’s side, to touch his cheek and see if he had a fever. He wanted undress and climb in beside John and place his hand on his chest to ensure that his heart still beat and he pictured it, doing just that. John’s skin beneath his shirt would be warm and his breathing slow. Even with the slight pain killer that John had allowed, his sleep would be probably be broken, and Harold wanted to be there when he stirred, when he…

He rested his forehead against the windowpane, the chill a soothing shock.

He was so tired.

He was tired of being angry, tired of wanting and not having. First Grace and now John. Suddenly it seemed as if his whole life had been spent wanting things he couldn’t have, of getting the things he ended up not truly wanting. He’d had Grace for four years and John for much less. What was all that to the constant awareness of perpetual loneliness?

Leaving Grace had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done. That it had been necessary hadn’t meant it had been easy. If he’d felt any regret, he’d always shrugged it off, telling himself that regrets were easy and for the weak-willed.

And nothing he didn’t know going in, nothing he could do about it now. He’d built the Machine knowing that being close to it brought an inherent danger. By extension, being close to _him_ meant the same. The only way to mitigate that danger was to limit exposure to both himself and the Machine. Never mind his growing feelings for John, never mind that just the thought of John in pain made his own chest hurt, it was crucial that he remember why he kept people at arm’s length. It was a simple equation, one even a child could understand: A plus B equals C. John was vital to his cause, therefore John needed to be kept safe from further exposure.

Feeling as if he were missing something important, he pushed away from the window and went to the bedroom. John was still asleep, though his color was good and he was no longer sweating. He pulled the bed covers up to John’s shoulders and John made a noise, a little sigh.

He sighed as well, then gave John’s blanket-covered arm a glancing touch and left.

He got a heavy throw from the storage closet and curled up on the sofa, facing the windows. He took off his glasses, closed his eyes and fell asleep, oddly at peace.

***

His life being what it was, it turned out to be quite easy putting away his inconvenient feelings. He stayed busy as did John, each number challenging them in new and not so pleasant ways. He made a few new acquaintances along the way including a dog that started out as a mild annoyance and grew into something else. He kidnapped and was kidnapped, in return. Both sides of the law—HR and the FBI—tightened their grip but each time he and John slipped free.

He survived every twist and turn and things progressed, life moved forward.

That was, until a sister bent on revenge showed his inertia for what it truly was and a bomb vest that brought his world to its metaphorical knees. In aftermath’s quiet space, he realized the latter had been his tipping point—the device made of military-grade fabric and explosives proved his decision the previous year had been nothing more than the vain last breath of the drowning man.

________________

 

2013

January

The world rocked with the force of the charge and Harold rocked with it. His first flashing thought was that he’d made a mistake and they were dead. It was a foolish notion he dismissed as soon as it crossed his mind, realizing at the same time that the blast came from the street below. He hurried to the side of the building and, steeling against vertigo, looked down. Amid the smoke and debris still floating in the air, he saw that a car was burning, trees were burning—even the sidewalk was burning. Across the street on the building opposite, the first and second-floor windows were blown out. Sirens and alarms wailed, the tall buildings acting as an echo chamber. It was chaos.

“Guess Snow retired after all,” John murmured.

He turned.

John stared at him and he stared at John. He wasn’t quite sure what to say but the sound of a bullhorn prompted action. He examined the scene again. “The FBI is here,” he said. “How are we going to get down?”

“Call Carter.”

“What about your usual masquerade of leaving with the police or firefighters when they investigate?”

“They’re second wave. First, they’ll send in a bomb crew to clear the building and that might not be for hours. Call Carter.”

He nodded. “Of course.” He wasn’t thinking—of course the bomb crew would have to ensure there were no more bombs. He should have thought of that immediately.

“You’ve been kind of busy, Harold.”

He hadn’t meant to say that out loud and he dialed quickly, almost angrily. Apparently one of the repercussions of getting almost blown up was a tendency to babble out loud.

Carter answered after one ring. “Finch?” She sighed. “I knew you’d be there to help him. Where are you? Are you okay?”

“Thank you for your concern, detective. We’re fine but we’re also in a bit of a bind.”

“You’re stuck on the roof.”

He raised his eyebrow. “We are indeed. Any idea as to how to get us down?”

“The bomb crew evacuated to the perimeter when the car blew up. They’re talking with the ATF, a few fire chiefs, the FBI, and my guys. Homeland Security will probably be next.” She was silent a moment. “Can you get to the sixth floor without being seen? That floor is level with the roof on the next building. If you can get there, Fusco and I will do the rest.”

He glanced behind him. John was trying to pull the bomb vest off—he didn’t seem to be having much luck. “We can, even if we have to break through a wall.” John looked up and gave him a glimmer of a smile. He didn’t smile back.

“Good,” Carter said.

“We’ll be there as soon as possible.” He hung up and then picked up the drive. He was shaking just a little, a tremor easily concealed. “Feel like playing the Incredible Hulk, Mr. Reese?”

Predictably, John grinned.

***

“Compared to our recent adventure,” Harold murmured as he disabled the door’s security alarm, “this is a piece of cake.” They’d had a bit of luck when they’d found a door on the west side of the building—no wall smashing had been required. If his calculations were correct, the door would let out onto the adjacent building’s roof. It had been blocked with boxes and crates. John had moved them with no apparent effort, saying the barricade had probably been put there by smokers so they could sneak out without having to go downstairs.

“Compared to our recent adventure,” John said, sitting on a stepstool next to Harold, “life will be boring after this.”

One last connection and it was done. “If only, and…” He nodded towards the door. “That should do it.”

John went to the door and then paused. “You’re sure you got the security cameras?”

“Of course, I am.”

“Then let’s move.” John opened the door.

He followed and then stopped so abruptly he had to grab the doorjamb. “Oh.” The door did indeed let out onto the adjacent roof, but there was at least a three-foot drop. “That’s what the stepstool was for.” He glanced up. “I’m not good with heights, Mr. Reese.”

“You don’t have to be, Harold.” John jumped down and then held his hand up. “I’ll catch you.”

Feeling more than a little foolish, Harold took John’s hand. Together they got him down with a minimal amount of pain, effort and embarrassment. The bomb vest aside, there was a moment, gone in a heartbeat, when he slid down John, their bodies pressed tight. He landed on his feet with his usual lack of grace, then stepped away, making a show of straightening his overcoat. When he looked up, John was watching him with narrowed eyes.

“There you are,” came a voice from behind the HVAC unit.

Grateful for the interruption, Harold turned to find Fusco and Carter hurrying towards them.

“I’ve got a vehicle around the corner,” Carter said, glancing between them. “Let’s go.”

***

For the most part, the drive down Lexington was quiet.

From the front seat, Fusco related how he and Carter had been waylaid by the FBI, the ATF, and Captain Delocati of the 17th Precinct. He wondered how he and Carter were going to explain their presence to their captain. Then, he wondered how much paperwork was waiting for them when they got back to their desks. He surmised there would be at least five hours even though they hadn’t done anything and he wasn’t looking forward to any of it.

Carter didn’t say anything beyond worrying that their exploits had been caught on camera.

Other than assuring her that he would see to any visual evidence, Harold said little. The week’s events were starting to catch up with him—Abby Monroe, John’s incarceration and interrogation, his own plans for a prison break, the code Kara Stanton had installed in the DOD network and finally, the disarmament of the bomb vest. What could one say after that? What could one _do_ after that?

Only John stayed completely silent. He stared blankly, passively out the window as if they were going for a Sunday drive.

When they got to 34th, Harold leaned forward. “This is fine, Detective.”

She looked at him in the mirror. “You sure? I’ve always wanted to see where you live.”

He smiled briefly. “A brisk walk will do me good. It’s only seven-thirty, after all.”

Carter pulled to the curb and Fusco looked at his watch.

“Huh,” Fusco said. “And here I thought it was almost morning. Guess almost getting blown up makes you forget about things like time and dinner.” He turned and grinned hopefully. “Anyone feel like getting a bite?”

Harold paused, already halfway out of the car. He didn’t know about John, but the last thing he wanted was to sit in a noisy room with noisy diners, rehashing the day’s events. “Thank you, but no. I need to figure out what Miss Stanton was up to.” It was a weak excuse but he knew both Carter and Fusco thought him an odd duck that worked all hours. What John was thinking was anyone’s guess.

Carter nodded. “Both of you should get some rest.”

He smiled briefly. “You as well, Joss. I imagine you’re tired after all you’ve been through.”

“Hey,” Fusco objected. “What about me?”

“I’m sure you’ll find some way to relax, detective. You always do.”

“Hey!”

Ignoring Fusco’s sputter, Harold turned to John. “Mr. Reese? If you’re not too tired, I could use your help.”

John’s blank expression shifted like a ripple of bright sun on a cloudy day, though Harold doubted anyone but he noticed it. “Of course, Finch,” John murmured. “After you.”

He waited, John by his side, until Carter drove away. “Come on,” he said, turning back towards 35th. “This way.”

John raised an eyebrow, some of the blankness fading. “We’re not going to the library?”

“No.” Even though it was relatively early in the evening, there were only a few people on the streets. No doubt they heard about the bombing and had either rushed over to gawk or were huddled in their homes, waiting for the next round. “I thought after all we’ve been through, we could use a respite. If only for a few hours.”

“What about Bear?”

“He’s fine. He has plenty of food and water.”

“What about the hard drive?”

Duty and obligation tugged on his exhausted conscience but he ignored that, too. “A few hours won’t hurt.” _I hope._

“All right.”

He could almost _feel_ John’s curiosity, the questions and comments, but John said nothing. He just followed down 35th until they got to a grey brick building in the middle of the block.

Hesitating, Harold glanced around, mostly by habit, and then climbed the few steps to the front door.

“I didn’t know about this one.” John examined the entryway. “I’m assuming the security system is turned off.”

He tapped in the key code and then hesitated once more. What he was about to do was surprisingly difficult; he’d never invited anyone to this place, not even Grace or Nathan. His spur-of-the moment decision would break a seven-year old promise, one he’d made after deciding that no one else would be harmed because of his ties to the Machine. “I installed it myself. The facial recognition programming was the basis for the Machine’s. It recognizes me and deletes any trace while still keeping the building safe from thieves. When you came to work for me, I programmed the system to recognize you, too.”

“Clever.”

Thanking John with a tip of his head, Harold opened the door. The lobby was empty.

“Where are the other tenants?” John asked.

“There are three,” Harold answered. “They all live in Europe and visit only rarely.”

“Of course they do.”

He made a face at John’s tone and then led the way to the elevator. The ride to the penthouse was brief and when the doors opened, he silently gestured for John to go first.

As John paced down the hallway, the automatic lights came on, one by one. Harold followed just as slowly, pausing at the end of the hall to watch as John ranged about the room, examining the paintings and sculptures until he ended up at the windows.

“Don’t be afraid of exposure,” he said to John’s back. “I had the windows specially made in Germany. No one can see in.”

John touched the glass. “This isn’t a safe house or an apartment for one of your aliases.” He turned his head, just barely. “This is your home.”

Harold straightened the small Matisse that didn’t need straightening. “I thought it was time.”

John turned. “Harold—” He stopped and then shrugged, a small movement that said everything.

“I lived here when I was building the Machine,” Harold said, taking a step into the room. “When I went to live with Grace, I moved out but kept the property. I don’t come here too often but I—”

It was his turn to shrug. Somewhere between 48th and 34th, he’d given in. It wasn’t possible to keep John at arm’s length, wasn’t possible to deny his own desire. “You were right.” He removed his overcoat and hat and hung both up, then went to stand next to the sofa. “And I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to admit it. That night changed everything. I’ve just been too—” He frowned, looking for the right adjective, the right set of words that would explain himself to himself.

“Angry?”

He glanced up, surprised. “No, not angry.”

“Stubborn?” John said, slowly coming closer.

“Hardly,” he answered, tipping his chin up, even though it was somewhat true.

“Afraid?” John asked softly.

He hesitated. John was only five steps away now. “Maybe,” he conceded. “I’ve spent so much time alone. It’s not easy letting people in.”

“I bet you cooked up some excuse that it was for my own good.”

“Yes.”

“You thought if we got any closer, you’d compromise the numbers.”

That wasn’t nearly the whole of it but he just repeated, “Yes.”

John sighed. “Harold. You don’t need me to tell you why that’s all bullshit, do you?”

John rarely swore and the shock of it sent a minor thrill up Harold’s spine. “No. I suppose I don’t.”

“I’m a big boy. I knew what I was getting into when I signed on with you. None of that has changed.”

He touched the back of the sofa. “Hasn’t it?”

John smiled. “No.”

He gazed up at John, truly looking at him for what felt like the first time in many, many weeks. There were lines around John’s eyes and mouth that hadn’t been there before and he needed a shave, although that wasn’t all stubble—

Harold took a quick breath, crossing that five-step space in two. His anxiety was gone in the face of a surprisingly sharp fury. It burned his stomach and chest and he reached up but didn’t touch. “Your face— I forgot that they beat you. Agent Donnelly let them beat you. Those animals.”

John raised an eyebrow. “I know how to take a punch, Finch.”

“Still…” In the past both recent and not, this was the moment he’d back away and gather his solitude about him like a concealing overcoat, a pretense at ignorance that always became the real thing. Not today, and he grazed John’s jaw with his fingertips. “We need to get that vest off you.”

John covered the back of Harold’s hand with his own and gave him an odd half-smile. “I almost forgot it was there. But…” John’s grip changed, became hard, almost painful. “If we’re going to do this, Harold, no more running and hiding afterwards. I’ve been patient but even I have my limits.”

Whatever fire had burned his chest moved up to his cheeks. “You’re right. I’ve been childish. No more running and hiding.” He pulled free. “But first, how do we get that…” He nodded to the vest. “…off?”

John removed his coat and tossed it on the sofa. “You don’t have a pair of scissors that can cut reinforced Kevlar, have you?”

He gave John a look. A strange, transitive exhilaration had taken hold of him. It was as if a hot light was filling his soul and that glow was spilling into his heart and head. “You know I don’t.”

John unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. “Then we’re going to have to do this the hard way.” He twisted to peer over his shoulder. “There’s a lock holding the two clasps together. Cut the webbing and I’ll be free.”

“What do you suggest I use?”

“Kara took all my weapons but a good chef’s knife should do the trick.”

He went to the kitchen and chose a knife and then another, just in case. “I haven’t had much chance to put these to good use lately so they’ll be quite sharp,” he said as he held them up. “Will either of these work?”

John sat on the arm of the sofa. “They will. If you don’t mind ruining them. They look expensive.”

Harold shrugged. The chef’s knife had cost four hundred and the santoku, seven-fifty. “I can order more. Now,” he said, walking around John to examine the back of the contraption, “where should I start?”

“There should be a narrow section between the lock and the strap. That will be the weakest area.”

He tried to get his fingers under the strap. “It’s very tight. I might cut you.”

John straightened, moving his shoulders back. “Is that better?”

The shift and slide of John’s muscles against his fingers was distracting and Harold reminded himself that what he was about to do held its own danger. He needed to concentrate. “No, but I’ll make do.”

“Then go for it, Harold.”

Taking a deep breath, he began.

He used the chef’s knife first, running the point backwards so the blunt spine pressed against John’s skin. He changed to the santoku when he accidently nicked John through his undershirt. “I’m so sorry,” he breathed, leaning over to examine the small cut that was already staining the white knit.

John turned his head. “I didn’t even feel it. Try again.”

He tried again. The brochure that came with the santoku had promised that the blade could cut through anything and they were right. It didn’t cut the reinforced webbing with ease, but with careful pressure, he was able to separate the locked clasp from the rest of the vest. “There. Give me a second.” With the strap free, he had room to maneuver and was able to cut through the final bit in a relatively few seconds. “All done.”

John pulled the vest off with a sigh and tossed it on his coat. “That’s better.”

Harold touched the two inch-square of bloodstained fabric. He could feel the curve of John’s scapula and the movement of his breath. If he stepped forward, he’d feel that same hard curve against his own chest. He stepped back. “I’m hungry. Are you?” He looked at his fingers; they were stained pink.

“I wasn’t until you mentioned it.”

“I’m afraid we’ll be at the mercy of my caretaker.” He picked up the knives and took them to the sink. “She hasn’t gone to the market in many weeks.” He opened the refrigerator. John came up behind him and they stood there, looking.

The pickings, as his father would have said, were lean. Milk, cheese, bacon, a head of wilted lettuce and—he reached for the carton—eggs that were two weeks past the sell-by date.

John took the eggs from him. “Do you like carbonara, Harold?”

“I do. There should be pasta in the cupboards.”

“I’ll make it if you fix a salad.”

“I think that lettuce is beyond help.”

“Then we’ll eat healthy tomorrow.”

“Very well.” He closed the door and then went to the cupboards. “Better yet, why don’t you take a shower while I cook. You smell like smoke. The main bathroom is down the hall and to your left.”

John was silent and then he murmured, “Sounds good.”

He waited, hand on the cupboard pull, until he heard the soft sounds of John leaving and the bathroom door closing.

He wasn’t running and hiding. He just needed a moment, needed solitude so he could calm down and collect himself and he couldn’t do that with John looming over him. Fixing dinner would normalize things.

He got the rest of the ingredients and a cutting board, wishing he had fresh lettuce and a tomato, or at the very least, a baguette. No matter how good, pasta was a poor way to celebrate, considering everything they’d been through. The evening called for something special—maybe steak at the Grand or if they had the time, a quick trip overseas to that little restaurant in the Marais District that he and Grace had discovered on their last visit. It had been such a surprise though they hadn’t known it at the time—the duck in pears had been the best he’d ever had. He’d always meant to go again.

Of course, he thought as he reached for a saucepan, that was assuming the restaurant was even still there. Everything was changing so fast. One minute something was there, the next it was gone. One minute one was content, the next…

Tonight had been a perfect example. Four digits had been the fulcrum point of unbalanced fate. Four digits had been—for two minutes and forty terrifying seconds—his entire world, and he’d almost lost everything to permanent, irrevocable change. If he’d chosen the wrong numbers, he would have felt nothing, but so many people would have suffered, and John—

He made a small noise in the back of his throat, a shocking almost-moan that seemed as loud as a shout. He dropped the pan on the granite countertop. It made a dull, ringing sound that echoed just as dully. He was shaking again, a secondary reaction he knew all too well, mostly because he’d done the research. His autonomic nervous system had decided it wasn’t quite done with him yet and epinephrine was flooding his body, firing his nerves, waking up every muscle. If he gave it time, his parasympathetic nervous system would take control and the shaking would cease, the urge to be sick would fade and things would go back to—

He gathered up the eggs, bacon and milk and almost threw them back into the refrigerator. He didn’t want normal, didn’t want calm. He wanted to hold on to this moment and not let go. He wanted to acknowledge and honor the epiphany he’d had not an hour ago.

Most of all, he wanted John in any way he could have him.

In a kind of daze, he strode down the short corridor, shedding clothing as he went. Jacket, tie, cufflinks, he dropped it all on the chair next to the hall table. He took off his shoes and socks, placed them on the floor, and then pushed the bathroom door open.

When he’d purchased the building, he had brought in a designer from Japan to give his new home an overhaul. He’d told Ms. Takahashi that he wanted a design that was the antithesis of the corporate world in which he spent so much time. No cold grays and whites or boring browns that were all the rage. He wanted warmth that held an edge of clean, post-war influence.

Ms. Takahashi had outdone herself, especially in regards to the bathroom. It was a large space that utilized river rock, tile, and wood. To the right was a wide cupboard; beyond sat the commode and vanity. To the left were the tub and the shower. Above, was a line of clerestory windows that let in the light when there was light. When Ms. Takahashi had presented the detailed drawings, the only item that had given Harold pause had been the semi-open shower. Walled on two sides with a subtle pattern of stone and glass tile, it had seemed extravagant and decadent and nothing he much cared for. He preferred privacy when he showered and had said so, adding, _‘This isn’t a locker room, Ms. Takahashi.’_

She had insisted on it, saying the design balanced the other pieces and that a traditional glass-walled shower, no matter how subtle, would break the effect.

Ms. Takashi had been right, Harold thought, staring at John. She had been so very right.

John was turned from the door, his head tipped to the shower’s spray, his arms lax at his side. A dynamic and lovely contrast to the glass and stone, he completed the space as if it had been waiting for him all along.

“Are you going to just stand there?”

He jerked. Of course John knew he was there—John’s sixth sense was something he’d grown to rely on. He touched the doorjamb. “No.”

John turned the shower off. “I thought you were hungry?”

“I was. Now I am not.”

“Really?”

Only last week he’d read an article about the newest craze in the outdoor experience: glass-floored walkways that spanned small chasms and canyons at parks and nature centers. It was an insanity, trusting that the construction was sound, trusting that the materials would hold against updrafts and gravity. He didn’t understand why any human would get any kind of thrill from walking over nothing.

Now he understood, just a little. Treading across the warm tile was terrifying and exciting, both at the same time. The floor felt unsteady and unreliable, as if it was going to crack open and he’d fall into an abyss.

It didn’t and he didn’t, and in a moment he was standing in a slip of water. He looked at John without really looking, whatever words he’d thought to say, gone, stuck in his throat.

“What is it?” John asked.

He hesitated, then said in a rush, his precipitate words stumbling over each other, “I was thinking how strange it should be that four numbers made such a difference. Even with the defaults programmed in at the factory, out of so many possible combinations, so many limitless sets, four wrong numbers—or four right numbers as the case may be—organized in the wrong order and we would both be—”

“No.” John was before him, grabbing his arms, stopping his panicked words. “We’re not going to do that. You followed your instincts and they were right on the money. I’m alive. You’re alive.” John stepped closer, his toes touching Harold’s. “You’re alive, Harold.”

He swallowed and nodded.

“Say it,” John ordered softly.

He looked up, straight into John’s eyes. His glasses were starting to fog up. “I’m alive.”

Delicately, John took Harold’s glasses off. “Again.”

It wasn’t enough, repeating words that suddenly had no meaning and he reached up and curled his hand around John’s neck. He pulled. John took a quick breath and then they were kissing, soft fumbled attempts that weren’t real kisses.

Living the way he did, his senses existed in a kind of stasis, brought out when called for and then only at half capacity. Working with John had changed that. With John he felt the extremes of his own emotions as if a veil had been lifted: all five senses seemed _more_ in a way he couldn’t explain, even to himself. Now was no exception and he reveled in it all: the soft rhythmic drip of water down the drain, the hum of the fan, the scent of shampoo and soap, and the feel—

He slid his arms around John’s waist, his needy hands fumbling for purchase on slick, sleek skin. Using negligible force, he urged John closer, pressing his mouth open. John sighed and allowed him entrance and, yes, that was so much…

…better, and could he ever get enough of the way John kissed? Focused and intent, gently bending him back, zeroing in on whatever made kissing so intoxicating. It wasn’t possible to ever get enough and the knowledge cut into the moment and stopped it in its tracks. He sighed.

Responsive as always, John stilled a second later. He straightened up a fraction of an inch and whispered, “What is it?”

In the half-light, John’s eyes were more green than blue, his eyelashes mere dark points. He probably looked like that coming out of the ocean after a swim. So beautiful—John was so very beautiful.

“Nothing.”

“Harold.”

He bent his lips in a smile. “It’s nothing. Truly.”

John held his gaze and then nodded. Whatever he saw satisfied him and he said, “We should get you out of those wet clothes.”

Harold made himself let go. “Give me a minute.” He retrieved his glasses and put them back on, then went to the cupboards. “You’re not getting into my bed in that condition.”

“You don’t want to get the mattress wet?”

“No, I do not.”

“I can do it.”

“No.” He chose a grey-green towel and shook it out, then returned to John. “I want to. Turn around.”

Without a word, John turned.

He took his time, drying John’s hair and neck first, then moving down his back. It was like drying a sculpture of the perfect man. He knew that when John went to the gym, the goal was to maintain optimum physical fitness. That the results were so visually pleasing was a fortunate bonus. Muscles, tendons, even the thin layer of fat at John’s waist—it all equaled perfection, intended or not.

In a kind of appreciative daze, he dried what he could reach, relishing John’s little shivers, his muted sighs. He cleared his throat. “Turn, please.”

John turned.

He held out the towel, keeping his gaze on John’s face.

John looked pointedly at the towel, then back up at Harold. “I’m just going to take it off in a minute or so.”

He pressed his lips together and nodded shortly. “True, but please…”

John raised an eyebrow. “Okay.” He took the towel from Harold and wrapped it around his hips.

Feeling as if he were being shadowed by a panther, Harold led the way to the room he so rarely used. As soon as he crossed the threshold, the lamps near the bed and closet sprang to life.

“Nice,” John said, gesturing to the bed, the study hidden behind a curved wall, the built-in bookcases that flanked the bed.

“John?”

“Yes, Harold?”

“Would you mind…?” He gestured to the bed, asking without asking if John would give him some privacy, if only the pretend variety.

“No,” John said, coming to stand before him.

He frowned. “No?”

“I told you,” John said, unbuttoning Harold’s vest. “Things have changed. Now, shut up and let me do this.”

He managed to hold onto his minor outrage for maybe five seconds and then he nodded. “Very well.”

John said nothing while he unbuttoned, unfastened and unzipped, moving Harold about as if he were a delicate but very large toy.

Harold wanted to object, but it was interesting, being guided this way and that. When he was down to his undershirt and boxers, John nodded towards the waiting bed and whispered, “Get in,” and then went to hang the clothing on the valet stand.

He followed John’s orders, thinking how odd it should be—this was his own bed in his own house. Pulling back the bedclothes shouldn’t be so erotic, sliding in shouldn’t be so fraught with every kind of sensuality. The cotton was cool against his hot skin, and as he moved to the right side of the bed, the sheets rustled and sighed. He looked over to find John shaking out the damp shirt. As if called silently, John looked around. Harold held the covers up.

John stripped off the towel and tossed it and the shirt on the stand, then padded towards the bed, head down, gaze fixed on Harold. He slipped under the covers and then sighed, “This feels good.”

“I purchased the mattress while in London. I’d stayed at the—”

“Finch.”

He closed his mouth with a snap and then nodded. “Of course. You’re right.” He drew a deep, shaky breath and removed his glasses.

“Here…” John murmured, hand out.

Passing them over, he watched as John stretched and set the glasses on the nightstand, muscles shifting and sliding.

“There,” John said, twisting back around to rest on his side. “Where were we?”

What a trite, overused phrase and he couldn’t help his dry response, “Here?”

John snorted and moved closer. He leaned in and brushed his lips against Harold’s. “Just asking. With you, I’m never sure.”

_‘How insulting,’_ Harold started to stay and then didn’t, hearing an off-key in John’s voice. He leaned back, examining John as he’d been examined.

John was smiling softly and his pose was relaxed, submissive even. But his hands were cupped and his eyes were watchful. Anyone looking would think him the picture of indolence, but Harold knew better because he _knew_ John.

He remembered the last year, all the back and forths, his A plus B calculations that always ending up with a sum that insisted on denial instead of simple acceptance. If he’d gone through all that, what had John experienced?

Sadly, it didn’t take a world-class genius to know that when he’d said no without actually saying it, John’s only recourse was to step back and put his own feelings on hold.

“Harold?”

“Yes?”

“You’re thinking too much.”

He tucked his hand under his head. “It’s my standard procedure, John. You know that.”

“All right,” John said, mimicking Harold’s pose. “What are you thinking about?”

“Open the nightstand drawer and get out the top book, please.”

John got the book and held it up. “ _Hamlet_?”

He touched the leather spine and its gold embossed lettering. After the events with Leila, he’d spent a week at the apartment and for no reason at all, had decided to re-read _Hamlet_. He’d only gotten to the second ghost scene when he put the book away, frustrated and disappointed by Hamlet’s lack of follow through. “I love and hate the play,” he said quietly. “It has many wonderful moments but Hamlet was such a fool. His indecision caused so much pain and got him nowhere. He should have just accepted his fate and dealt with his issues accordingly.”

John was quiet for a moment and then he said, “Without his indecision, there’d be no drama, no story. It had to go that way.”

Harold took the book. “Is that is your way of telling me that it was right that I held you at arm’s length, that it wasn’t cruel and selfish?”

John smiled briefly. “I’m telling you that I understood. I’m used to not getting what I want; it wasn’t a big deal. Besides, we had a job to do and that came first.”

He said nothing for a moment, taking that in. It was the perfect John type of answer. It was also bleak and resigned and made him feel worse. Absently and with a kind of perfect self-satisfaction he had put away physical pleasures. He’d told himself his higher calling came first and that he hadn’t much cared anyway. John’s companionship had changed all that. John had brought hope and satisfaction and laughter. It was wrong that he’d repaid those gifts with nothing more than a few words of gratitude, a metaphorical pat on the head.

“ _‘And with honey from the rock I would satisfy you.’_ ” he quoted with a crooked smile.

John’s smile faded but his eyes lit up with banked surprise. “Am I your honey from the rock, Harold?”

He dropped the book and reached out, stroking the mottled bruise on John’s jaw. When John’s eyes narrowed in pleasure, Harold leaned in and kissed him, assuring evenly, “No, John. I’m yours.”

***

“Wow,” John said, staring up at the ceiling, his eyes barely open.

Harold didn’t smile though he wanted to. “Wow?”

“Mm-hmm. You wiped me out.”

Lazy heat bloomed in his chest. He told it to hush because there’d be no more of that for a while; John needed to rest. He pulled up the messy sheets and blanket. “Go to sleep. You’ve had a long day.” Expecting the same in return, John just smiled, his eyes already closed.

He turned on his side. He should get a washrag and gather up his underclothes. He should get his pajamas. He never slept in the nude. It was so impractical, so dangerous—one never knew when one might need to run. But the bathroom and dresser were all the way on the other side of the room and John was already asleep. Waking him up now would be unkind after all his efforts.

Smiling at the memory of those efforts, Harold stretched out his arm, hitting a hard lump under the pillow. It was the book, forgotten in the heat of the moment.

He pulled it free and peered at it. It wasn’t priceless but it was a fairly good edition, bought years ago at an estate sale. It deserved better than to be shoved aside like so much detritus.

He was examining it for any damage when John sighed and shifted, his hands searching blindly under the covers.

Without thought, Harold tossed the book to the thick carpet and carefully slipped his arm over John’s chest. John stilled immediately, easing back into sleep.

Frowning because John’s reaction almost hurt, Harold lay his head on the pillow and closed his eyes.

***

He woke at the touch of soft kisses on his neck and a hand on his hip. “Again?” he whispered. By the light of the clock, he’d slept for a couple hours.

John gently shoved, rolling Harold to his back. He pushed the covers down and kissed the center of Harold’s chest and then the hollow of his stomach. “Again.”

***

The next time he woke, it was by habit though it was still dark outside.

His entire left side was cold, his entire right side was warm. After the second time, he’d fallen asleep on his back, not one of his favorite positions, and when he moved, he had to stifle a groan. He opened his eyes.

John was curled towards him, one arm outstretched, fast asleep.

Harold studied him for a moment, seeing by memory instead of honest sight, then got out of bed. Distracted by the night, by John so close at hand, he forgot about the book and kicked it, stubbing his toes. Stifling a curse, he picked it up and set it on the nightstand.

He turned to see if he’d been too loud but John hadn’t stirred, which was odd. He knew from experience based on observation based on more than a few stakeouts that John slept lightly, rousing at the slightest sound or movement.

Ignoring the urge to touch John’s shoulder to see if he was still alive, he got fresh clothes and went to the bathroom. He showered, half expecting John to join him. John did not.

Telling himself he wasn’t disappointed, he dried off and got dressed.

John’s suit was still on the bench. It was a mess, crumpled and dirty. Sighing, he gathered everything up and went to the kitchen. He bundled the clothes into a plastic bag and then called the main office. It wasn’t yet six but his caretaker answered immediately.

“Yes, Mr. Turnstone?” she said.

“Mrs. Hamilton, I’ve a suit and shoes that need cleaning. I need them returned within the hour.”

“Very good.”

“I’ll leave everything in the lobby.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you. Have a good day.”

“You, too, sir.”

He hung up. When he’d moved in with Grace, he’d kept Mrs. Hamilton on, mostly because she was one of the most discreet employees he’d ever had. She might be curious as to why he was having a much taller man’s suit cleaned and pressed, but she’d never ask.

He went to the foyer and retrieved the hard drive from his overcoat He shouldn’t have left it so relatively exposed and once again blamed the distraction in his bed, this time with a soft smile. He examined the drive, turning this way and that. There was nothing special about it, but no surprise there.

He packed it away, then got out his notepad and pen. He wrote: _Off to work. Your suit is being cleaned; it will be waiting for you in the elevator. 3#9184. Please do something with that vest._

He examined the words. They were practical and to the point but perhaps they were too abrupt, maybe even cold? John wouldn’t mind, of course. No matter his words, John knew things wouldn’t change _that_ much. He wouldn’t be expecting love notes or flowers.

Still…

With an impatient sigh at his own tentativeness, Harold added: _When you get to the office, we’ll go to breakfast. There’s the place near the park that you mentioned you wanted to try._

He put the pen away before he could add something along the lines of, _‘Thank you for last night. I had a splendid time,’_ or worse yet, _‘Love, Harold.’_ With the way he was feeling, either was a possibility.

He placed the note square in the middle of the table and then picked up his case, overcoat and hat and went to work.

***

Bear was waiting at the gate. With a pat on his head, Harold said, “Good morning.”

Bear followed him through his morning routine with a little less enthusiasm than usual. Harold knew the reason and when he’d filled the bowl with kibble, he stroked Bear’s head and ears. “It’s all right,” he said. “It won’t be long now.”

He logged into his computer. There was no new number and no reports of any deaths or injuries from the explosion. Given the events of the previous evening, it was a relief to know the collateral damage had been structural only. Of course, the lack of numbers could point to another cause but he assured himself that whatever Stanton had been up to, the virus couldn’t have wormed its way into the Machine so quickly.

He hooked Stanton’s drive to a standalone laptop and then let the program run. He watched the progress for a while and then grew bored. He switched gears and turned to his main computer. It might be possible to track down the makers of the bomb vest and the phones Stanton had used. She wasn’t the type to work alone—if he could get to her suppliers, he could get to her source.

Two hours later, he was still sitting there, desultorily tapping his fingers on the desk because he’d found nothing and wasn’t really paying attention when he heard the sound he’d been waiting for: soft footsteps on the library stairs. Bear heard them at the same time and he jumped up with an anxious whine and scurried across the slick floor.

John met Bear just beyond the gate. He knelt and whispered, “Good boy,” as Bear wriggled and danced. Bear’s weight and excitement were too much and with a wide smile sent Harold’s way, John fell to the floor with the dog in his arms.

Harold watched them for a brief moment and then turned back to the computer. Nothing had changed. They were still the same, employer and employee, coder and soldier. Just because his heart had jumped to his throat at the sight of John’s happiness, at his sunny smile, it meant little. “Are you hungry?” he called out without looking away from the monitors. “Because I am, and Bear could use a walk.”

***

They strolled down the street slowly, two feet of space between them. The morning sun was bright and the sidewalk was crowded with people intently hurrying this way and that. John was in charge of Bear because the dog wouldn’t leave his side. Every so often, Bear would look up as if to say, _‘You’re still here. I missed you so much. Don’t do that again.’_

At a newspaper stand, Harold paused to buy a copy of the _Times._ John kept walking, stopping in front of a jewelry store.

Harold paid for his paper and glanced at the front page. The explosion was above the fold and he scanned it quickly. It gave him no new information, which was slightly frustrating but not unexpected. He tucked the paper under his arm and was turning to catch up with John when a phone rang. Startled, he searched, looking all around until he found the phone booth on the other side of the newspaper stand.

Thinking, _What now?_ he went over and picked up the handset.

The Machine said nothing.

Harold waited a moment, then said, “Hello?”

Still, the Machine didn’t answer and he tried again, “Hel—”

The Machine interrupted him, quickly drumming out in alternating mechanical voices, _‘Golf. One. One. Deterministic.’_

He frowned. The list was far too short.

_‘Golf. One. One. Deterministic,’_ the Machine repeated.

“Golf,” Harold murmured, and then realized what was happening. He got out his notebook and wrote the words as the Machine repeated them one more time. “I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me,” he said absently, examining the letters he just wrote. “But if you’re—” He stopped and took a quick breath. And then looked over at John.

John was staring at him across the distance of twenty feet, his expression blank with concern.

Harold gave him a small, reassuring smile and then hung up and put the notebook away. He caught up with John.

“What was that?” John asked. “Was it a new number?”

“No,” Harold said slowly, thinking on a conversation he’d overheard the year before: _‘Who’s looking after you these days?’_ “I’m not sure what it was, but I believe everything is fine.”

“Are you sure?” John said

“I am.” It was a lie, of a sort. He didn’t quite know why, but the Machine had communicated with him directly for the first time in almost four years and it wasn’t any message about a number or a warning—it was just the word, _Good._ “Mr. Reese?”

“Yes, Finch?”

He reached out. “I’ll take Bear now.”

“All right.”

He took the lead, making sure his fingers stroked the back of John’s hand. John’s worry visibly washed away and Harold had to stop himself from answering John’s hesitant smile with one of his own.

They started walking up the street again, no longer two feet apart.

_‘Good,’_ thought Harold, trying to contain the warmth inside his chest.

Good.

 

 

_fin_.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to The Man He Was Meant To Be. I started it almost immediately after the first story and added a bit in 2013 and more in 2016. When Carter was killed off, I had to take a break from POI and only recently got back into it. This story is my way of trying to remain positive about the show even though season 5 is killing me. The episodes referenced in this story are: Mission Creep, Get Carter, Number Crunch, Root Cause, Baby Blue, Shadow Box, and Dead Reckoning. Many thanks to Klia for her thoughtful editing; any mistakes in the story are mine, mine, mine.


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